


In This Garden [We Took Our Breath and Made it One]

by Arnediad



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A strange shot in the dark, Basically just Glorfindel falling in love, Dat oral fixation tho, F/M, First Time, Het, I refuse to apologize, My First Het, Pretty much every aspect of sex you'd anticipate, Probably romantically cheesy, The author sometimes has this need to be romantically disgusting, You can't take me alive, You've been warned, fluff probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: Her name was Miniuialwen, and she was more beautiful than the stars.
Relationships: Glorfindel (Tolkien)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 69





	In This Garden [We Took Our Breath and Made it One]

**Author's Note:**

> 'Tis fluffy porn, that is all

Her name was Minuialwen.

It was...but she was known as _Mina_ , and she had a smile not unlike the sunrise that was her namesake. Her hair was a color he could only compare to that of the Silmarils, and under the light of stars it shimmered in reflection of their brilliance. She was of Sinda descent; having come from Thranduil’s courts and decided to stay as a ward of Lord Elrond. He took her in under cause of employ, and she worked often with Lindir in the running of Imladris. Those who lived in the Last Homely House spoke of her fondly, as one might speak of she who had always been their kin...and perhaps she was. Steadfast was she in her duties but good also with a bow and arrow, and not at all untrained in the use of a dirk. Some might have considered her common, but when he came to Rivendell he needed but to look once at her and know that for him, she was anything but.

There were standards-so he’d learned-in the courting of _elleth_.

In Gondolin, for example, a simple courting process...one not even leading to betrothal, could take months on end. It was dependent upon the house, upon the standing of the house within the hierarchy of social status and the house of the courtee. More than that it was also dependent on fund and provision of fund; a house with a large dowry was less willing to give a lady’s hand in marriage to an _ellon_ who could not offer equal or greater provision. This was why prospect, education, and court-centric recognition were so important to the youth of yore alike...the more respected you were, the greater wealth you amassed, the greater your chances of wedding into the like. And, of course, it was not always about class, but even among the elves there were prejudices and standards, especially in such dark times. He himself had never taken it upon himself to seek out partnership; mostly because he was a war leader and a general and he had no spare time to himself.

No such standards existed now.

Well, not to such a great degree, in any case...and not for those without great measure of historical relevance to name, such as the Lady Arwen and Elladan and Elrohir. Courting among elves in the Third Age was a measured but sometimes whimsical thing. He was sometimes surprised by the swiftness with which his kin would bond...as it was not done in times of yore. He was labeled shy thusly, not in matters of war but in matters of wooing. Elrohir often teased him over his reluctance to court, and he always answered that he was too old, and that it must be bad luck for a poor _elleth_ to tie herself to someone who had already died once. He was older than Elrond and too immersed in the intricacies that had given him new life to focus on matters of the heart. Still...when she looked his way he could not help but look back...and sometimes he looked when she was not looking...for she was warm in nature, and he did not feel that he had to be anything other than himself in her presence.

Romance was out of the question.

In the First age, anyway; he was the Lord of the house, and that did demand that he have some measure of stature in court, but that did not mean he needed to seek out a life partner. Expectations regarding his person were fierce, they were rigid and in such tense times he could not afford distraction. And it was not in the sense that falling in love would have been a nuisance, or that any woman could possibly ask too much of him. He had a great respect for the _elleth_ who moved among the courts; they were fierce but refined, trustworthy yet independent. In truth, there were times he was intimidated by them on a level that was purely conscious of their role in city life. And he had seen too much of the tragedies of romance to really pursue such things with a heart that wasn’t full of doubt. There was never the guarantee that he would survive the next battle, or that he would be present enough should children ever become a matter of question. And he did not doubt any woman’s ability to parent without his presence, but it was not the cut of an _ellon_ that he wanted to present; he did not want to be the _atar_ hovering in the eves...spent and battle-weary, ever looking to the next bloodshed and not to those he had sired.

Quick-witted...he found her.

Clever...and not a little bit independent. She was not so quick to simper at the sight of him as many of the other _elleth_ did. That wasn’t to say that she was not polite, merely too sure of herself to fall to flattery when confronted with a hero of yore. She called him _’hîr vuin’_ but he was not her Lord, and they both knew it. When spoken, it was said with just the slightest hint of amusement, and the grey of her eyes would light up just a little bit...as if she were quietly laughing at her position...and by proxy, his. There was no intended offense to it, merely the knowledge that in their standing, despite their past, they were equal in nature, and he respected her for it. They were introduced via a vassal who seemed to have better things to do, and that first evening they spent walking in the gardens talking of idle things that were somehow without idleness when she spoke. Greatly did she value her position, but more greatly did she value the insight she gained from it...and so he admired her. She had vast knowledge of years and Ages past...and she was one of very few willing to discuss them in depth. Even Elrond had trouble looking too much beyond the veil of the Third Age; troubled were his memories as a child, and so Glorfindel did not press him for conversation in regards to reminiscence...but Mina had no trouble doing so.

Dark were such days.

 _Numerous_ were such dark days...and at times they seemed unending. He despaired sometimes of whether their intent in regards to their people was enough...if their cause was stubborn enough. Morgoth was a fearsome enemy; and more than fearsome, he was tactical up to a fault and his Lieutenant was no less tenacious. Never was he ignorant of the power of the foe that they stood against...and often hid from. Never did he turn a blind eye to the fact that should something go wrong...should Gondolin be revealed, then it would bode more than ill for them. The existence of the elves was balanced upon the edge of a blade that at times swayed too heavily in favor of the enemy, much of their tactics were based upon luck and prior knowledge and with feuds such as those garnered from the Sons of Feanor, they were divided in ways that unbalanced them and drove them to bitterness and resentment. Morgoth’s madness when it came to the Silmarils did not make anything better, for such madness consumed counterparts of both friend, foe, and diplomatic ally.

Beautiful, she was.

Like summer flowers blooming in a winter field; somehow starkly out of position and yet perfectly placed; radiant in their beauty. He had his tasks and she had hers, but as the years wore on he found himself evermore drawn to her brilliance, and it was not because she was apart, but because she made no effort to be apparent. Yet he could not miss her when she entered a room...tall, willowy, with the hint of that laughter in her eyes and playing about her mouth. In time, he found that he hearkened to her presence not because she asked it of him...but because she did not ask. She merely was, and that was enough. ‘Oft did he find himself seeking her out with some pretense of a word, but when he was before her he discovered that he did not need a reason to approach her; she was happy just to see him...and somehow, that was more than enough. Their friendship was easy...their conversation easier; he felt safe with her and he would have liked to think that she felt the same with him...even if neither of them did anything about it.

That wasn’t to say there weren’t times when he was tempted...in his youth.

Of course he was...for what individual does not desire intimate closeness with another; not necessarily for physical means but for emotional needs. There were _elleth_ at court who would linger overlong at his side, who flashed him hopeful smiles or took the time to sit and talk with him, if he could spare the time. He was not ungrateful for such opportunities, because more often than not he found himself in possession of many vast friendships. He was loved, not in a personal sense but in a universal sense in question of being loyal, trustworthy, and ever-vigilant. And it was easier that way...regardless; he answered for his house and he served his house and the sovereignty his house was under. He had, dare he say it, a greater amount of connections than many of those above his status because he was able to devote his time wholly to the cause of his people. Even the King at the time could not boast such a thorough claim.

Here...there were no Kings and no courts.

None of such rigid or strict formality in any case, and he found himself at loose ends more often than he liked. He had his purpose during the War of the Ring, but it was a small purpose compared to his prior tasks. And he did not want for greater endeavors; indeed, there were times when he desperately wished that the Valar had elected for him to stay in the Halls...but he also knew that wishing for something that was not to be was foolhardy. He was old, and sometimes he was _very tired_ , but when he found himself in Rivendell he was not so weary. Not so, because he could gaze at the stars...so familiar and yet so different from the life he had lived before. Not so, because even when battle dirtied there was a little nook in the library where he knew he would always find a cup of spiced mead, a silver-eyed glance, and a kind word. He looked forward to such times because they were simple and they asked nothing of him.

Elrond told him to get on with it.

With the war won, he had no excuse to linger on the shores, but still he did. He didn’t know why at first, only that he felt he could not sail without purpose and though many might argue that his purpose had been fulfilled twice over...he still could not. Many of his kin were gone...and the others were preparing to do so but the call of the sea was not as strong as the call in his heart. He was oblivious to the cause, of course, because so little had he seen to his own needs that he had forgotten them, really. Love was not so much a foreign concept to him as it was an untranslated one. So when he wandered, he found himself wandering in circles that grew ever-tighter about Imladris, and ever did he find himself in the gardens staring at the stars thinking that there was one missing, or something astral missing at its core in the depths of his soul.

_”You should talk to her.”_

This was said to him on a temperate summer evening, out on the dias where the Fellowship had gathered. He was sat by himself...with nothing but the wind to keep him company when Elrond came with a visage that was knowing but also a little bit sad. He didn’t know what he meant...not at first, because he did not know what was in his heart. The Lord of Rivendell took his confusion with a kind of gentle amusement; clapped him on the shoulder and wished him a good-night while the crickets sang in the rushes. Somewhere beyond...the world was drawing closer. The Last Homely House was not so hidden anymore, and the magic that held its secrecy in such gentle, ancient quiet were unravelling...like clouds breaking after a storm. When they withdrew completely he knew that the last of the House would Sail, and the truth of it left him desperate because he was not ready, and he did not know _why_.

He thought at first it must be Maglor.

It did not sit well with him that the last of Fëanor’s sons should be doomed to wander the earth until the end of his days. Truthfully, he did not think that it sat well with Elrond either. Despite the circumstances under which the half-elven Lord had found himself in Macalaurë’s care, it was clear that he respected and admired him. He was a father figure, even if in order to be a father figure he had done heinous things. He looked...and he looked long for the lost minstrel, but he had no fruits for his labor, save sometimes the snatch of a song that seemed to say that he should turn away...that whatever Fate had led Maglor to these shores held him fast and would forever hold him. Discouraged and deeply grieved, he returned to Imladris feeling as he had failed...and that he would never find a solid answer for his inability to let Middle Earth go. Another Summer had gone by the time he gave up his quest...and it was near to Fading that he found himself in the gardens again, looking at the stars and wishing for once that they would give him answers instead of brilliance.

So did she find him.

Like a cloud of silver and gossamer she found him, and he looked long as he had never looked before. The years had changed neither of them, but he found himself wiser and yet no less wise when it came to the nature of _elleth_. So when she smiled at him he only wished that he had more to offer her, because surely the time had come and passed to ask whether or not she might have him...as he was. And who he was was broken, sullied, maybe not in appearance but in fëa. Most would not think him so...the Lord of the House of Flowers. And yet he did not find anything of himself growing as the world became ever-more cloistered and ever-less kind to those of his ilk. The light of the Eldar was fading...and now it was but a glimmering, nostalgic flicker on the tongues of those who bothered to remember. And he did not know...not really, of anything to do with love. He was a flirt, to be sure, but such flirtations had never struck him as useful when it came to Minuialwen. It struck him that he respected her too much to try such a thing.

 _”Laurefindelë”_ she murmured, and he closed his eyes. _”Laurefindelë, a hauta sinomë.”_

It was an entreaty and a welcome, and he did not know how to answer it. He did not because he did not know whether or not he had the courage to bare himself after such a long time having avoided it. And it was cowardice, to be sure...but it was an honest cowardice.

_”Elen s-síla lúmenn' omentielvo.”_

He stumbled over the formalities, his tongue felt thick with it, and she laughed but it was not deprecating...more gentle and knowing. There was a hand on his cheek, and it was not a soft...delicate thing; it was worn with calluses from using a bow, but somehow more sweet than the fluttering, perfumed palm of an _elleth_ of the court. She was before him, even if through his closed lids he could not see her, and when he turned his head to breath in...just at the center of her palm, he did not miss the way her fingers trembled. He inhaled and it was an abbreviated, choked thing, and the flood of longing was foreign and desperately strange.

“I have no gift for you” he murmured into her lifeline. _”Ánin apsenë_ ”.

 _”Laurefindelë”_ she whispered, and then she said it again...until he would look at her.

The stars suddenly seemed dim.

They did...in the face of her...and he had seen many great _elleth_ ; the Lady Galadriel being one of them. But Mina seemed bright in a way that was only for him, as she always had. And he was ever-beleaguered, ever-preoccupied and ever-driven, so while he might have seen it before he did not _feel_ it as he did now. And he did not believe in Fated meetings...he hardly believed in anything anymore...save maybe his sword and the fact that the sun would rise and set, and that the moon would hold its position as it was wont to do. But here he believed in _something_ other than that...even if he did not know what it was. And he was heartsick, world-weary and dreadfully stubborn even if he was, at his core, driven to be pleasant because that was his wont. But Mina did not look at him as a relic...she did not look at him as something out of place or overburdened or wrought with horror and he wanted to ask her _why_ but he did not know how to speak.

“I see you” was the simple return as the hand on his cheek retreated to gently grasp his chin. “I see you, _Laurefindelë_ , that is gift enough.”

“I should think that not a gift” he chuckled weakly, and she smiled...but now it was a little sad.

“But that is why it is” she said gently, and _ai_ her breath was warm over his lips, and she was so very near and everso beautiful. “If you do not kiss me, I think I won’t forgive you...you have left me waiting too long.”

Dutiful was he.

Dutiful...and in his duty ignorant often to the loneliness that seemed scrape and gnaw at every bone in his body. Yet still it was there...in the silent moments. Often he felt it on the battlefield, his blade wet with blood, his hands scoured with ash and trembling down from the whirling high that combat would provide. Full-up with death and yet somehow _empty_ and the yearning for whatever it was in his heart that was not truly there but never really did abate. He could go home...to whatever he called home-even now, he was unsure if he had ever really had a home when it came down to it-and laugh and drink it away if he was feeling particularly suffused with it, but it never disappeared. Under the spirits...under the laud he was given by his peers was that sense of reeling, ever-present bereftness.

He felt no such bereftness now.

So when he took soft lips with his own it was an obedience but it was also a surrender. Not necessarily to she who was before him, but to the knowledge that perhaps he had longed for this for an Age, and then another Age. And she tasted sweet on his tongue...not because of any semblance of gentleness or vulnerability, but because it was _whole_. He thought perhaps that she did not expect him to acquiesce, not entirely, because the fingers at his chin trembled again before they stroked along his cheek to tangle in his hair. Helpless...he was helpless to reciprocate, and still it was chaste...still it was simple, without depth and yet somehow fathomless. He was, vaguely, aware of the softness of silver locks under his palm...of the shift of platinum follicular strands that fell over his fingers...softer than silk, but there was only the kiss to be had...and only the kiss that he could focus on.

It ended...and it began again.

He drew away to breathe, she followed and it was Anew...circulant in an exchange and he felt much like a leaf shaken from the branch of a tree in their current season. Again and it was not so chaste, and her nearness was a balm to his soul...though he knew not how. Only that she was close and soft...and that the scent of her was a thing he could not name save merely _Mina_ , and why had they not done this sooner? The garden seemed to fall away...seemed to become a space separate unto them and the warmth that flooded him when she opened her mouth to his sent liquid fire dancing across his tongue. He felt himself flush, felt the quickening of his blood in every region focal to desire and the courtesan in him whispered that he should not press her so, not so soon and not without conversation. When he drew back he kept her near...steadied them both with a hand at her hip and he did not miss the blush on her cheeks...the way it spread prettily across the bridge of her nose and the glimmer of firth in her eyes was outmatched by the warmth that emanated from them.

“We should-” he began.

“-We _should_ ” she interrupted in a tone of firm agreement, and kissed him again and this time it was _hot_ and _oh_ and he did not think that she knew what she was asking, but of course she did and it would be a _grave insult_ to insinuate otherwise but he must know-

“-I am very old” he muttered against her lips.

“Yes” she said wryly. “So am I. So are we all, after all this time.”

“I do not think-” he stuttered.

“-Good” she laughed, and her tongue was lightning on the edges of his mouth. “You should not think.” She was heavenly, all of her was _heavenly_ and he groaned...soft and quiet and not a little bit confused. “I have done all the thinking” she remarked at length, when he was a panting wreck and his laces were undone- _his laces were undone_ -!-at the front of his tunic. “And I want you...only you.”

He wanted to tell her she was a fool to want him; that she would be thoroughly disappointed in him when it came down to everything but she was kissing him again and all the protests that he had dreamt up were lost in the taste of her, in the gather of her hair and the beautiful way her breath hitched when he moved from her mouth to kiss along the graceful arch of her neck. By the Valar he wanted her...but he did not want to do her wrong by assuming, and yet he knew he did not assume very much. He found the soft roundness of an earlobe and the gasp he received was a thing shivering down to his nether regions, a thing unchecked, she was moulded to him and surely she could _feel_ -!

“‘Tis a public garden!” he gasped senselessly even as his hand hitched up her skirts just enough that he could clutch at the creamy expanse of a thigh and when she laughed it only served to run a vibration down through the length of him that left him insensate and reeling. “I have never-”

“-Nor have I” she giggled into his ear and that was _truly unfair_ , but she had ahold of his tunic, had tugged it from the moorings of his belt and there were fingers dancing over his stomach and he found himself stumbling with the shock of it.

Enough did he stumble that he was forced to bring the hand at her thigh upwards, and he stiffened to find his fingers trailing through a sparse but soft thatch of hair that was-so he imagined even though he could not see it-glimmering wet with arousal. She made a slightly shocked noise and the apologies that slurred from his mouth were fruitless even as he readjusted his grip to not be so very rude. There were no undergarments and it registered in his mind that she could not possibly have just _forgotten_ them and that was _glorious_ but also terrifying.

“I would not use you” he said weakly even as she drew him down to the grass, as they sprawled and a slim-fingered hand guided him to the ruffle of lace just above her breast. “I would not-”

“You aren’t, _meleth_ ” she said gently. _”Áva sorya.”_

Never ever in his very long life had he even dreamed to think that he would find his first love in the midst of a garden...with the moon rolling high overhead and his fingers trembling with pent-up lust even as the subject of his affections guided him into another kiss. He was knelt before her, half stretched over her form and when she drew the shoulder of her dress down he could not help but follow the retreat of fabric with his mouth. The taste of her on his tongue was a thing like spun-sugar and yet not sweet but deeply feminine...familiar and yet not...foreign and yet not. She threw her head back to the stars and it was a gesture not submissive but trusting and he moaned into the soft valley between her breasts until the laces there were undone too. Here, he had to stop and look, had to draw back so he could trail his fingers over pale curvatures heavy and full. She was beautiful so...her hair spread on the grass beneath her...desire coloring her cheeks as he dipped his head to tongue the rosy bud of a nipple into his mouth and she _gasped_ and he _shuddered_ for it.

All the while she found him in turn...drew his tunic from him until clever fingers had found every dip and valley of his torso. Where she touched there should have been stars trailing behind each gesticulation and he found himself enthralled with the warmth in her palms...the tenderness of her ministrations. Through it all she smiled...against his mouth...the shell of his ear...the crease of his elbow. He was aching in his breeches and there was a part of him that felt desperately ashamed of the degree of his arousal but she did not seem to find his need for her a thing to abhor. Indeed, as he left the glittering aureole of one nipple to kiss over to the other she rolled her hips against his and he felt that the world should perhaps combust. She did it again and he was forced to still her ‘lest he truly embarrass himself. At first she seemed confused, but upon catching sight of the heavy desperation in his visage she merely laughed...soft and throaty before lifting her hips somewhat so he could draw her dress down and away. He did so slowly...in increments...stopping so he could kiss down the soft slope of her belly...pausing to dip his tongue into the hollow of her navel and this made her squirm and chuckle, protest weakly when he did it again only to move away and venture lower.

The dress was cast to the side.

Thrown really, on her part, and he wondered if perhaps they should keep it nearer but she had drawn him into another scorching kiss and he could do naught but prop himself up on one arm until he was cradled between her thighs. His boots met a similar fate, but that was more him than her and she laughed again and he wanted to tell her that he could listen to her laugh forever but now she was before him...unclothed and fetching and he could do nothing but groan and nuzzle into the soft crease of a thigh and breathe her in until he felt as if he was swimming in it. She was there...and he longed to touch but some part of him dared not until she shifted insistently, made a soft noise at the back of her throat and her legs were parted for him even as he descended, as he licked inwards until his tongue was about the soft rutch of her pearl and that was when she gasped and arched into him and he was _lost_.

How long he spent there, he did not know.

He didn’t...only that he was consumed by it, by the flickering, glimmering nature of piqued and parted passion. Lingered...he lingered over that sweetness, danced over it with the tip of his tongue until she was soft and open and he delved deep, drove forward like one might with a sword but with no brutality, merely fervor and her hands were clenched in his hair perhaps too-hard but in his current state it only drove him to advance further, to lick into clenching firth until she cried out his name...and he wanted to hear it again...and again. He was made lazy with it...felt a haze slip before him as her thighs hugged him to her, as her abdomen tensed and went rigid and she gasped something that might have been a prayer or a curse and he moaned as he was flooded with the pinnacle of her desire.

And then abruptly she was fumbling with his breeches.

Fumbling and yet somehow driving him absolutely mad and some part of him registered that he was flat on his back...that he had been tossed at the height of it only to come down to find hands touching rigid flesh that jerked with the contact. Aroused...he was so mindlessly aroused that he felt he might spend if she kept up with him that way but she merely ripped his laces open so she could tug them down and so he could kick his breeches away. He did fear, for a moment, that she might try and take him into her mouth; and he feared it not because it would not be pleasurable but because then it would surely be over. She didn’t, however, merely took the length of him in her palm and gazed at him with laughing eyes as he made a noise like a wounded animal. She bent to kiss him as she did so, let the heaviness of him rest against her fingers...trailed up and down until he was shivering all over…’till the fire at the base of his spine felt as if it might explode outwards and escape through every orifice in his body.

He rolled them back over to prevent the inevitable.

The inevitable being that she brought him off with butterfly-light touches and despite the fact that he was inexperienced he knew that that was not the way to go about it. She fell with him, in a tangle of limbs and arms and softness and he paused again to palm her breasts...to cup her in that soft...parted space and she hummed with quiet approval as he let his fingers rub before delving somewhat with one. Gently...so gently, and here he knew he must go slow...he must take his time ‘lest it not be pleasurable for both of them. He would be gentle...he resolved...he would be patient and draw it out for it was the way of the Eldar...the way they were wed and he would not wed her in mindless passion. Nay, he was fully conscious of his care as one finger became two...as he curled trembling digits deliberately until she was clenching around him and saying his name in that broken but desirous tone. It was hard to temper himself...harder still with the knowledge that this was something so sacred...because in such sacredness was a need to be One. Once more, he let her find her peak before venturing further, before he blanketed her torso with his...one hand under the roundness of a smooth buttock even as he looked into her eyes.

“Are you-” he began.

“ _Valar_ ” she gasped. “If you ask me if I am sure then you have surely not been paying attention.”

Ecstasy.

He moved between her legs...positioned himself with unsteady fingers and that slow...gradual slide inward was ecstasy and torment. The growl that left him was mindless, a thing dredged from the very depths of his being even as he burrowed his way further, as his nose brushed the trembling arch of her throat while they were made One and suddenly he was so very aware of their nearness. He could feel her heart beating beneath her breast...feel the anticipatory trembling in every limb but more than that he felt _whole_. It was such an overwhelming feeling, even as she fluttered around his length, he was undone by it, and the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes were a thing both of restraint and of awe...because surely this was the greatest gift he had ever been given.

 _”Le melin”_ he murmured. _”Miniuialwen, Le melin.”_

 _”Ai”_ was the whispered return even as gentle fingers threaded through his sweat-soaked hair. _“An ngell nîn, Laurefindelë, gi melethig.”_

It was a meeting of fëar when he moved...a thing of deep, abiding affection as he lifted his hips only to bring them back again in a soft, smooth slide. Mina arched and he gasped against the softness of her throat, let his hand steady them at the base of her spine. Her legs wrapped around him as he did so...ankles hooked as he drew her in for a deep kiss before beginning an easy...gentle rhythm that he knew he could not last in even as she threw her head back and met his advance with her own. Like the beat of a drum...a heartbeat in the soul and she was made known to him in their oneness, and he to her. Deep and steady and the stars spun above them like astral specters as they were wed in the open air...as the night spun out before the crush of form and the theft of breath. He found that central locus again...found that hidden ache within her that had her writhing beneath him and it was wondrous to behold as she came undone; as the lithe form in his grasp became an everlasting arch and the clench about his length had him following her down with a muffled exclamation into her hair as he released within her in a flood that had him blind with intensity of it. It was a glow arcing off the base of his spine and he hunched over her even as she cried out for him and he murmured her name as they were both spent.

It took a long while for either of them to move.

He found himself disinclined to withdraw from her, and it seemed that she felt the same for she did naught but gather him closer even as he shivered from the cold of sweat drying across his temples. He kissed her eyelids because it felt like something he wanted to do, and then he kissed her cheeks and her ears until she was laughing into the fall of his hair and he could have wept with the beauty of it.

“I love you, Glorfindel” she murmured into his ear. “I will always love you.”

“I don’t know why you love me” he said at length, his voice ragged. “But I love you also.”

She smiled...and again the stars seemed dim in comparison.

“Will you sail with me...Lord of the House of Flowers?”

And under the sky...in the eyes of the Valar and all else, Glorfindel smiled also.

“...Yes...I will.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ <3 *will edit for grammar errors probably, it's inevitable
> 
> **Translations**
> 
> _”Laurefindelë, a hauta sinomë.”_ -Glorfindel, rest here awhile.
> 
>  _”Elen s-síla lúmenn' omentielvo.”_ -A s-star shines on the hour of our meeting.
> 
>  _”Ánin apsenë_ ”-Forgive Me
> 
>  _elleth/ellon_ -female/male elves
> 
> _ai_ -exclamation, like 'oh!'
> 
>  _meleth_ -my love
> 
>  _”Áva sorya.”_ -do not worry, something to that end
> 
>  _”Le melin”_ -I love you
> 
>  _“An ngell nîn, Laurefindelë, gi melethig.”_ -Please, Glorfindel, you are my love


End file.
